I climbed into the small bed, its wooden frame creaking loudly under my weight. The rushes in the mattress were lumpy, but they smelled clean, and the sheets felt smooth and soft against my skin. I lay on my side, facing the wall and its peeling plaster.
The last time I’d gotten any sleep had been in the jail cell in Yvain. Before that, the couch in Marcello and Les’s home. And being dead, if that counted. I’d probably never again have a safe home or regular sleep. All I could do was count the beautiful things remaining in my life: the clean sheets on this rented bed, that the Caffarellis hadn’t tried to kill us on sight, the cool night air on my skin.
The floor creaked. Chill air brushed across my back as Les lifted the covers and slid in behind me. I made room for him. He pulled me close, and the warmth from his skin soaked into me. Somehow, he’d read my mind, had understood my desire even though I hadn’t spoken it aloud.
He brushed the hair from my face and kissed me on the neck beneath my ear. His mother’s pendant pressed against my back.
“Les,” I said. He kissed my neck again, his hands sliding around my ribs to my stomach. “My brother’s still alive.”
His hands paused. “Rafeo?”
I shook my head. “My other brother, Matteo. I heard Claudia say it in the fight. After they . . . after Val killed you.”
He breathed quietly behind me. “What does that mean?”
My throat tightened. I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it means he’s a Da Via now. I think I’ll have to kill him.”
Les sucked in a breath.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s . . . nothing.”
He was keeping something from me, something he didn’t want to discuss. But we were both in this together now, our fates intertwined when She’d resurrected us.
“He’s not my brother anymore, anyway, if he’s a Da Via.”
“He’s still your blood, Lea.”
“No. The bonds of Family are stronger than the bonds of family. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s why my mother turned her back on the Caffarellis when she married my father. It has to be that way, or no Family could ever trust another enough to arrange a marriage. And Matteo was always a stickler for rules and tradition.”
“Hmm.” Les trailed his lips to my shoulders, his hand slipping the strap of my camisole down my arm before he slid around to my stomach again. I placed my hand over his and guided him lower.
“Lea,” he murmured against my flesh, “are we going to survive tomorrow?”
My skin fluttered beneath his fingers, and heat spread across my body before journeying higher to meet the heat of his lips.
“No,” I answered, my voice breathy. “No.”
He nodded, his loose hair stroking my shoulders. He trailed his other hand across my back. The whisper of my camisole as it slipped across my skin was loud in the still room. His fingers hesitated, brushing lightly below my shoulder blades. I shivered.
“Lea . . . ,” he said, his voice no longer soft, but questioning. He removed his hands. “What is this?”
“What?” I twisted my neck.
He held me in place and ran his fingers over the same spot on my back. “You have a mark here.” He pressed his fingers against my skin.
The warmth that had built in my body vanished. I shouldn’t have a mark. . . .
“Was this where you were stabbed?” he asked.
I rolled over to face him. I moved his arm and pendant and examined his chest. There, where Val had driven his sword through Les’s body, was a white mark.
“You have one too,” I said.
I traced it. Shaped a bit like a starburst, it was smooth, completely unlike a scar. More like a discoloration of his skin.
He trembled, and I snatched my hand away. “Does it hurt?”
He captured my fingers and brought them to his lips. “No. Just a mark to remember that night by.”
He leaned over and kissed my shoulder, my collarbone.
I ran my hands across the skin of his chest. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget,” I said.
His lips pushed against mine and he rolled on top of me, his weight pressing down as he continued to kiss me deeply, fervently. I returned the kisses, my hands sliding across his back, his muscles, his skin, imprinting the feel of him on my fingers.
If I died tomorrow, at least I had one last beautiful thing remaining in my life.
Fabricio’s looked dull in the early evening light. The restaurant opened once the sun set, since most of their clientele were those who spent their daylight hours in bed.
The restaurant was as far north as the city allowed, pressed against the crumbled city walls. I imagined the ghosts pushed against Fabricio’s after sunset, trying to reach me. Les and I hid in a shadowed alley, Les with the firebomb and extra materials in a satchel strapped to his back. I watched the front of the restaurant until he started to fidget.
“No one’s come in or out,” he said. “At some point we’re just going to have to take a stab at it and see if it bleeds.”